Tutus, Taps, & Terror

 

Oh Lord, I can almost smell the estrogen.  It’s so powerful that it overpowers the hundreds of bouquets of flowers that parents and grandparents have brought in the auditorium. Everyone taking their seats are smiling and laughing.  That’s because the program hasn’t begun. I’ll check in about 3 hours and see where the smiles are then. In some circles this is known a dance recital, but I think of it as a level of Dante’s hell.  

The opening of the event was very unusual: the emcee asked any veterans to stand and we greeted them with applause. My, have things changed. When I was a kid in the Vietnam era, a lot of the audience would’ve probably spit on anything concerning the military.  

Then someone sang the Star Spangled Banner, and when the singer finished with, “…and the home of the brave,” at least a dozen people yelled,”Roll Tide!”  I’m ashamed to say I was one of them. Hey, I got caught up in the moment. 

I suppose I was having a bit of a Vietnam flashback myself. This recital brought back memories, and most of them were not good. I had a younger sister who danced for about 10 years, and every spring I was forced to attend her recital.  I whined, cried, and griped to no avail. Mom’s reasoning was a misplaced sense of justice: since my little sister went to my football games, I was obligated to attend her dance recital.  Of course, my sister got to run and romp all over the whole ballpark, while I was trapped in a seat in some steamy high school auditorium. I think since mom hand-sewed every one of my sister’s costumes down to the last sequin, she figured that someone else was going to suffer with her. And because my father flat-out refused to go, I became the designated male. In fact, my counselor thinks this stress has given me PTRD - Post Traumatic Recital Disorder. I have to agree; because when the lights dimmed, the curtain raised, and I heard tap shoes, I began to hyperventilate and break out in hives.   

The little kids they herd out there are cute, and I especially took notice when my granddaughter Addy made her first appearance. However, soon my mind began to wander.  I found myself thinking about the costumes.  I saw some of the same children in three or four dance numbers. That’s three or four costumes, folks. It’s a lot of cash to lay out. And I would be willing to bet that there’s not a Mom in that building who is hand sewing anything. My guess is that half of them can’t sew a button on a coat, even if they watched a YouTube video on how to do it. 

The typical dance routine is about 3 minutes or so, and my granddarling was in two numbers, 

I said to my wife,”Do you realize that we’re waiting for three hours to get about 6 minutes of entertainment?”

My wife replied, “Yeah. It’s just like our Wedding Day.”

Naturally, the event planners conveniently space out their routines -  one near the first of the event, and one towards the end, thus forcing you to stay for the duration. Those sneaky, wicked, recital moms. 

After watching that glorious ensemble of three year olds tap dancing to Sinatra’s rendition of “Ain’t She Sweet?”, my wife turned to me and said,”I’m going to get Addy, and then we’re getting out of here,”. It sounded like she was sharing an escape plan with a fellow prisoner.  In a way, she was. 

We waited until the lights were lowered, turned on our phone flashlights, and then I lead our group of four adults and four children out. Within a minute, we passed the last row and went thru the double doors. Freedom at last!  

After presenting Addy a dozen roses and taking a dozen quick photos, our little convoy headed to a nearby restaurant.  To my dismay, the parking lot was packed. Undeterred, I walked inside, where I couldn’t help but notice a number of tables in the main dining room were filled with families, including little girls in  dance outfits. The hostess told me there was a 45 minute wait, despite my attempts to bribe her with a rose.     

It looks like a lot of people escaped before we did.